


Kidnapping

by PericulaLudus



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [10]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Beating, Brotherhood, Death, Friendship, Gen, Historical Figures, Historical References, Kidnapping, Mentioned Massacre, Past Massacre, Past Torture, Past Violence, Religious Conflict, Religious Fanaticism, Shooting, Siege Warfare, Sniper - Freeform, Starvation, Violence, War, hunger, mentioned rape, past trauma, physical violence, sharpshooter, warfare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21971011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: This fic takes place during the Siege of La Rochelle (1627-1628) as part of the French Wars of Religion against the Huguenots. It depicts the effects of brutal siege warfare in a protracted religious conflict. Mentions of rape, child death, and mass killings in Chapters 3 and 4. Themes of physical violence, starvation, and past trauma throughout. Please proceed with caution if any of these are difficult for you to read.
Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1078923
Comments: 37
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place during the Siege of La Rochelle (1627-1628) as part of the French Wars of Religion against the Huguenots. It depicts the effects of brutal siege warfare in a protracted religious conflict. Mentions of rape, child death, and mass killings in Chapters 3 and 4. Themes of physical violence, starvation, and past trauma throughout. Please proceed with caution if any of these are difficult for you to read.

The sun dipped slowly towards the ocean. Porthos didn’t long for the sea, but he liked looking out that way where all seemed open and free. Far above his head, seagulls circled, drifting on a breeze he couldn’t feel. The stifling heat of the day was fading. Watching his surroundings no longer felt like staring into a roaring furnace. But Porthos was still uncomfortable, his skin sticky with sweat and dust after a long day as a lookout. He rubbed his shoulder against the rough-hewn stones, trying to scratch an itch.

Next to him, Aramis stood still, finger on the trigger of his musket, staring at La Rochelle. He narrowed his eyes as the glare of the setting sun made it difficult to distinguish anything.

“Let’s go,” Porthos said. “We’re done for the day.”

Tomorrow, they’d be back at some other spot for yet another day of staring at yet another gate. They always moved him. Aramis was the best sniper by far and they didn’t want the people of La Rochelle to learn where he was. Much better to make them live in fear of his sudden shots, to make them think there was more than one man. There were others, of course, but none of them were as good.

Aramis didn’t move.

“Come on,” Porthos said. “Athos was here an hour ago. You heard him. Time to go home.”

He wished it really was home they were going to. Home to Paris and his room at the garrison. Instead, home was the room they shared at the castle of Aytré. They’d been at the coast for a good nine month and more than half of that they’d spent in that room. They were lucky, of course, and couldn’t complain.

Complaining wasn’t Porthos’ style and really, there wasn’t much to complain about when you knew you were doing the king’s work and God’s as well. Fighting for their country and the church; wasn’t much more a soldier could ask for. Porthos just wished that something would move. Anything at all.

Aramis certainly made no attempt at it, so Porthos looked up at the birds again. Sometimes it took Aramis a while to come back to himself after a day on duty. His head often hurt, focussing so hard for so long. Tonight would be one of those nights; Porthos could tell. He smiled at his friend. He was so dedicated, even after all these months.

“Come,” Porthos said. “You deserve—"

“Shh.”

Surprised by the harsh reply, Porthos followed his friend’s gaze. Aramis’ eyes were fixed on the gate opposite them in the city’s wall. It was difficult to make out details in this light, but after a whole day of looking at it, Porthos knew it well. The dark wood nestled between the massive towers. This road must have been busy before the siege, leading out to the mill they now used as a lookout, back when the mill had its sails and the city had grain to grind.

Porthos couldn’t see anything at first. He narrowed his eyes and adjusted his hat, trying to find what Aramis saw. Suddenly, he spotted it. A slight movement, then another, and a third. Three men were darting from one bush to another, barely visible against the marshy fields. He wasn’t sure where the men were headed, but they had picked the right time for their excursion. The sun was in their backs, blinding anyone watching, and with the long shadows and shifting light they were nearly impossible to sight, even if they had been within shooting distance.

The three didn’t seem to be aware that they were being watched. The outer wall, held by the royal army, was far away. Porthos doubted they were headed that way. They would know by now that that was certain death.

Porthos’ eyes stung, so he decided to watch Aramis instead. His job wasn’t to be the eyes. It was to hand Aramis another musket, to reload his when necessary. Mostly it was to keep Aramis watered and fed and somewhat sane.

Aramis’ finger twitched, the flash lit up his face, and the shot rang out. He was pushed back by the recoil, but immediately steadied himself and handed his musket to Porthos, getting back into position with the second weapon. Porthos didn’t reload. He stared at the spot where one of the men had fallen. He couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think he twitched at all. Probably dead on the spot.

His two companions were haring back to the gate. Aramis followed them with eyes and muzzle. Porthos held his breath until the men had disappeared into the city. Then he turned to Aramis.

“What the hell?”

Aramis lowered the musket and took a step back. “What?”

The thunder of a cannon interrupted them. They tensed. The Huguenots answered every shot, trying to eliminate the snipers. Unlike Aramis, they missed.

“What’d you shoot him for?” Porthos asked.

“Being an enemy.”

Porthos tore the cartridge open with his teeth and spat out the paper. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“And let them get to the wall to be hanged?”

Porthos glared at him. “You could have given them a warning shot.”

Aramis took the cartridge and musket from his hands, loading as he spoke. “You saw what happened. They started running as soon as I shot. They were too far away for me to hit them as they ran.”

Porthos snorted. He still couldn’t believe Aramis had made that shot at all. “Straight through the heart?” he asked.

Aramis rammed the wadding down the barrel. “I think so.”

Porthos threw his hands in the air. “You’re impossible.”

He didn’t know if he was complaining or complimenting him.

“I did my duty.”

A stupid excuse, hiding behind duty. “He wasn’t threatening the king, he wasn’t a danger to us.” Porthos snarled. “You murdered him.”

Aramis shrugged. “I picked the weakest one. Made his death quicker and easier.”

“How can you say that?”

Aramis brushed a bit of stray powder from the barrel and leaned the second musket against the wall. “What were his choices?” he asked. “Make it to the wall and be hanged? Or go back and die of starvation?”

“They were coming for crops.” Porthos gestured towards overgrown fields. Nobody had tended them this year, but there was still some food to be found. Nettles and berries; they took everything.

“How long would that buy them? A day? A week? It’s a siege, Porthos. We’re here to end it.”

“And you’re the one to do that?” That was ridiculous. “Thousands of men all around and the king and the cardinal and even Tréville and you think you shooting innocent men will make them break?”

“We all do our part.”

Porthos kicked the wall hard enough to make both muskets clatter to the floor. “We’re musketeers, not murderers. We defend. We don’t shoot civilians.”

Aramis crossed his arms. “There are no civilians in a siege. Women and children, I’ll accept, but not young men. When we take the city, every one of them left alive will mean the death of one of us.”

“When we take the city, that’s when we’ll deal with them. Not when they’re searching for food.”

“You and your soft heart.” Aramis shook his head. “It’ll be the end of you one day.”

“No danger for you then,” Porthos spat. “You think you’re so damn good at this, your heart has turned to stone.”

Aramis snorted. “Suit yourself.”

He turned back to look out towards La Rochelle and didn’t say another word. Porthos glared at his back. Taking a man’s life with no need and just shrugging it off…

“You better say some prayers,” he said, turned on his heel and stomped down the stairs. That wasn’t the Aramis he knew. Aramis wasn’t like that. Aramis was kind and caring and saved lives. And yes, he took lives, they all did, but they didn’t shoot people like hares.

Porthos strode towards the outer fortifications, back to the rest of the army. Behind the vast ring of forts waited his dinner, Athos, and a glass of wine. A bucket of water to rid himself of the sweat and dust wouldn’t go amiss either. Maybe another one to dump over Aramis’ head to make him come back to his senses.

The deafening crack of another cannon shattered whatever was left of the peaceful evening. With a great splash, the heavy ball disappeared into a small lake nearby. The cannons weren’t very accurate, certainly not over that sort of distance. Trying to pinpoint a sniper and hit him was nearly impossible.

Porthos wasn’t worried. He was one man on a meandering path. Even with the sun in their backs, they wouldn’t be able to hit him. Anyways, God was on the king’s side, Aramis always said. He would protect them. Still… Porthos hesitated and turned back to look at the mill. He hoped that Aramis would leave it soon and join them. He was a sitting duck in that place.

Back at the musketeers’ camp, Porthos sniffed the bucket of water. The surrounding area was marshy and the water was never clear. With the recent heat, it had also begun to smell like dirty socks. He sighed. Nothing for it unless he fancied a swim in the sea. Which he didn’t. Aramis had tried to teach him, but… Porthos shook himself. He didn’t want to think about Aramis and he didn’t want to think about the damn sea. And Aramis in the sea and... No. Aramis and his thick, stinky head wouldn’t make him think about any of that. It would all be forgiven in the morning, but for now he wasn’t best-pleased with his friend.

He washed off the sweat and dust of the day, but the lukewarm water only made him sweat more. The temperature hadn’t dropped much. The air was still muggy. It weighed him down like a heavy blanket. Breathing could still be hard at times.

Serge handed him bread and ham and Porthos nicked a carrot while the cook wasn’t looking. He munched on that while he made his way through the crowd. Men sat in small groups on the ground or around the long tables.

There were a few games of cards being played. Porthos threatened to join one group, laughing at their protests. Sometimes he’d have fun with new recruits, but most of the older men refused to play with him by now. Only a few persistent ones still tried their luck, Aramis said. Athos called them stupid.

Athos sat a little apart, staring at the bottle of wine in his hands.

“You alright?” Porthos asked.

Athos grunted his reply. Porthos flopped down next to him and began to tear into his food.

“Scorcher of a day,” he said.

Athos handed him the bottle and Porthos took a long drink.

“Thanks,” Porthos said, wiping his lips on his sleeve. Not that the wine was cold, but it sure smelled better than the water. “Think there’s going to be a storm tonight?”

Athos shrugged. Porthos rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed after a day on top of that god-forsaken mill with a near-silent Aramis was a brooding Athos. He looked at his friend. He was harder to read than Aramis. With Aramis, he could tell if it was a headache, a broken heart, or something else. With Athos… unless it was the wine, it was never obvious what was wrong.

“What’d you get up to today?” he asked.

Athos snatched the bottle back and drank some more. “The usual.”

Porthos gave him a moment to see if he’d continue, but he didn’t.

“Captain’s working you too hard,” Porthos prompted

“Needs doing.”

Porthos shook his head. This was going to be a long evening if two words was all he was going to get at a time. He didn’t mind a bit of silence, not at all, but he’d had a full day of it, so really, it was getting old. Digging words out of Athos seemed as slow and painful as digging a musket ball from a wound.

“It’s too hot to even eat,” Porthos said.

Athos looked at the last piece of bread in his hand. “You manage.”

“Got to keep my strength up.” Porthos patted his stomach.

“Hm.” Athos returned to staring at the bottle.

Porthos stared at him. Tréville did work him too hard. The king was frustrated with the siege and all the talk of the English fleet and God knows what else, so Tréville spent most of his days in counsel with the cardinal and other high up officers. But someone had to take care of the day to day running of the regiment and that was mostly Athos now. It was a lot of work and a lot of men to keep busy when nothing ever happened. No wonder Athos was tired.

Porthos left him in peace. He brought him another bottle of wine and sat with him in silence. Not that there was much to say. Sitting around in some old mill didn’t make for an exciting tale. He wondered where they’d be the next day. They never knew until the morning. Keep the surprise. There were Huguenot spies everywhere, so no point telling people things before they had to know.

“Where’s Aramis?” Athos asked.

Porthos shrugged. “He’ll come.”

“I see.”

Porthos doubted that. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “He had a kill today.”

Athos nodded. “Good.”

Porthos grimaced. Of course, Athos was right. It was good. That’s why they were out there. That’s why they risked their lives within reach of the city’s canons. That’s what made Aramis special. Of course a kill was good. But it was also the death of a young man who was only trying to find food. Porthos had been there too many times to not feel sympathy.

Since Athos wasn’t in any mood for conversation, Porthos listened to those around them. There wasn’t much laughter that night. Everyone was sweating and bored and miserable. Still, their arguments were better than seeing that poor man on the ground again and again. Porthos hoped they’d come and get his body in the night. Give him a proper burial, if Huguenots did such things. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe their souls just went straight to hell and nobody cared about their bodies. Never knew with them.

No, he wasn’t going to think about that. It was done now. Not for that poor man’s family of course, but— No, he wasn’t going there.

Serge was directing the clean-up operation. Porthos watched him swat one of the kitchen boys for dropping a loaf of bread onto the dusty ground. Couldn’t be having that, not on Serge’s watch.

Suddenly, one of the recruits came running.

“Athos,” he cried. “You’ve got to come. Quick!”

Athos raised a questioning eyebrow.

“It’s Co–Clotard.” The lad was in such a frenzy he was stumbling over his words. “He’s got Matthieu by the neck, said he’s— Oh you got to help him!”

“Show me.” Athos heaved himself to his feet.

The boy was already running ahead. “He’s going to kill him for sure.”

Athos scowled and followed. Porthos brought up the rear.

They didn’t need a guide. Their fellow musketeers were drawn to the fight like moths to a flame. Soon, Athos stopped outside a tight circle of men, all shouting warnings and encouragement. Behind the wall of heads and shoulders, Porthos could catch the occasional glimpse of flying limbs.

He watched Athos frown and squeeze his eyes together as if he had a headache. After a brief moment, Athos’ face settled back into its usual blank mask as he tried to weave through the men. They wouldn’t shift, too caught up in the fight to even notice who was behind them. Only when Porthos pushed and elbowed them apart, did Athos manage to make his way through the crowd.

Looking very far from being killed, Matthieu was holding his own against the much younger Clotard. He was kneeling on Clotard’s chest, pulling his hair with one hand.

“Gentlemen,” Athos said.

Nobody listened.

“Gentlemen, please,” Athos said more loudly.

In that moment, Clotard flipped them and the crowd jeered and cheered as he pummelled the older musketeer.

Athos was now shouting for attention, but nobody paid him any heed, which seemed to confuse him. With every ignored shout, he grew more and more flustered. When Clotard grabbed Matthieu’s head and knocked it into the dust, Porthos gave Athos a nudge.

“Come on,” he hissed. Athos stared at him with wide eyes but did nothing. He’d have hell to pay with Aramis if this ended in a head injury. Porthos pushed Athos’ shoulders, making him take one small step towards the fighters. Not that it mattered. The whole mass of people was constantly shifting.

“Stop it,” Athos said so quietly that Porthos wasn’t sure if it was directed at Clotard or himself.

Porthos sighed and stepped around Athos, pushing aside two of the most eager spectators.

“You heard him,” he roared, knowing full well that they hadn’t. “Stop it. Now!”

He grabbed Clotard from behind, lifting him off Matthieu. It was too easy. They’d have to work on his awareness in a fight. Couldn’t always count on having just one enemy. Clotard was stunned for long enough that Porthos could wrap his arms around him, squeezing so tight he gasped for air. Then Clotard recovered and started to fight back, landing a few ineffective kicks to Porthos’ shins.

“Enough,” Porthos shouted right into Clotard’s ear. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

“And of the regiment,” Athos added, glaring at the man in Porthos’ grip. He didn’t raise his voice, but he didn’t need to any more. Silence fell as soon as Porthos ended the fight.

Matthieu was struggling to his feet, looking slightly dazed, but catching his breath now. As soon as he got up, he rushed forward. Athos stopped him with a hand to the chest.

“One more step and Captain Tréville will hear of this. You’re bringing the musketeers into disrepute.”

There were murmurs at that. Porthos shivered to see mutiny in so many eyes.

“What were you thinking?” Athos hissed. “You are musketeers, not rabid dogs.”

Porthos grimaced at Athos’ choice of words. No man liked being called a dog. No man liked a grass either, second in command or not. It’s wasn’t hard to see what they were thinking. They were bored out of their minds, all of them. Sitting around month after month wasn’t what they were trained to do. A few of the men stepped closer, tightening the ring around them. Porthos looked at Athos, hoping he’d have something smart to say to make them see sense.

Athos didn’t.

The voices grew louder. The men came closer.

And then the bell rang, telling them it was ten minutes till curfew time.

“I suggest you retreat to your quarters,” Athos said. “Do not bring further dishonour upon the regiment.”

Men grumbled at that, but Athos turned on his heel and pushed through them, not looking at anyone. Porthos dropped Clotard so he could cover Athos’ back.

Athos didn’t notice the murderous glares directed at him. He didn’t even stop for a bottle of wine but kept walking towards the castle and their room. Behind them, Porthos could hear the musketeers disperse. Curfew was strict in the royal camp. Anyone caught out after hours was guilty of desertion.

“Are they leaving?” Athos asked eventually.

Porthos looked over his shoulders. The crowd had scattered and everyone was moving towards their quarters. “Yes,” he said.

“Good. It would be a stain on the regiment’s reputation to have musketeers executed as deserters.”

Porthos shook his head at Athos’ tone of voice. Sure, men had been shot for breaking curfew. But to Porthos that wasn’t a source of happiness. He cared about their reputation and all. He was proud of it, of being a musketeer. But the men mattered more. Obviously, Porthos was the only one who thought that.

First Aramis and now Athos.

Porthos growled. They were no better than Clotard and Matthieu and those cheering them on. A bit of boredom was one thing. But nobody cared any more. Like the sun had melted away all their morals and decency.

Athos opened the door to their room and stopped suddenly.

“Where is he?” he asked.

Porthos looked over Athos’ shoulder and well, all he could say was that Aramis wasn’t there. The bed and bedrolls were untouched. His stomach clenched. What if Aramis… he’d left him all alone, out there in no-man’s land, and what if…

“Never mind. I can imagine.” Athos sat down on the bed, kneading his forehead. “He was explicit enough this morning.”

Ah, yes… Porthos’ stomach relaxed. Aramis had said something about… well, about needing to scratch the itch. About how it was a very long time since he’d last seen Madame Couture. Yes, even Porthos could imagine where Aramis was.

Curfew came and went without any sign of Aramis. Athos huffed and grumbled about how typical that was. Porthos had to agree. It was hardly the first time Aramis had spent the night with a woman he shouldn’t have been with.

They played a game of chess. For once, Aramis didn’t interrupt them with his sighs and complaints about how boring it was to watch them stare at that board for hours. That was nice. Athos took the bed that night. Porthos didn’t mind. It was Athos’ turn next and since Aramis had decided to abandon them, it was only fair. At any rate, he’d sleep better knowing that he wasn’t the one Aramis would flop down on when he finally sauntered back into their room at dawn.

After they’d extinguished the light, Porthos lay in the dark, yearning for the slightest hint of a breeze from the open window, but more than that yearning for Aramis to be next to him. He shouldn’t have left him like that. Aramis was right, really. They were soldiers and he was a sniper. Killing people was what they did. Porthos and his stupid soft heart, getting in the way of duty once again. Shooting that man still didn’t feel right, but Porthos knew it was his mind that needed to adjust and not Aramis’. That wasn’t a poor man; that was an enemy. He’d kill the king, given half a chance. He’d kill the pope for sure. And heaven knew what else they did, those Huguenots. He’d heard all sorts of tales. He should have remembered those before getting so cross with Aramis. But of course he hadn’t. He’d pushed him away and left him alone and now Aramis didn’t even feel welcome in his own room any more.

“Stop your fretting,” came Athos’ muffled voice from the bed.

“I’m not—”

“You are. If you weren’t, you’d be snoring by now.”

“It’s just the heat.”

Athos sighed. “The heat has never bothered you. Aramis’ absence does.”

“I shouldn’t have said what I did. I…”

“It was his decision to miss curfew, not yours.”

“But if I hadn’t…” Porthos let the sentence trail off.

He heard Athos shift on the bed. His voice was much clearer when he spoke again. “Has it crossed your mind that he might simply need space?” Athos asked.

It hadn’t, of course. These sorts of things never crossed Porthos’ mind. He needed his brothers to explain them to him.

“The close quarters and enforced idleness are taking a toll on us all,” Athos said. “Aramis, I’d assume, feels this more keenly than most.”

Porthos frowned. “He’s got more to do than most. He had a kill today. He’s very important.”

“He’s had weeks of this, lying in wait all day for maybe a shot or two. It’s taxing work. I may not approve of his choice of distraction, but I do not begrudge him the relief it undoubtedly provides.”

Porthos felt twice as bad at that. So not only did he not understand Aramis’ duty, he also didn’t understand when he needed relief. And he wasn’t able to provide any. Madame Couture was. Was better than him, more necessary. Did Aramis struggle with it all? And if he did, why hadn’t he said? Or had Porthos not listened?

“Fretting,” Athos said. “I believe I told you to stop.”

“But what if—”

“What if you slept now and discussed it with him in the morning?”

Porthos breathed out heavily. “You’re right,” he admitted.

Athos shifted again, getting comfortable once more. “Sleep, Porthos,” he said. “He’ll be back in the morning.”

*******

He wasn’t.

Porthos woke at dawn and found Athos in a murderous mood. There was no trace of Aramis.

Athos was already fully dressed. He paced back and forth in their small room like a caged wolf.

“He’s a disgrace,” he spat.

“He’ll be there,” Porthos said. “He always is.”

It had been a while, but back in Paris it wasn’t uncommon at all to have Aramis saunter into the yard at the very last minute, having made full use of the time he had with his mistress.

“If he’s not at muster, he’ll have hell to pay,” Athos growled.

Breakfast was a tense affair. Everyone was giving them a wide berth after the previous night and they had an entire table to themselves. There were mutters all around them, but everyone kept well away from them, maybe because Athos was radiating anger and they all thought it was because of them.

Athos looked like he’d rather run into La Rochelle all on his own than to sit here with the regiment. He didn’t speak one single word the whole time they ate, which didn’t help Porthos’ fretting at all.

Porthos tried to be covert about looking around at all the other tables, trying to spot Aramis. Maybe he didn’t want to eat with them and had found better company. Maybe Athos had underestimated just how much space Aramis needed. Maybe him not being there this morning was a sign. Maybe he’d asked Tréville for different lodgings because he couldn’t stand the sight of them anymore. The sight of Porthos, more like. Porthos who didn’t understand the realities of a siege, of being a musketeer. Aramis had moved rooms before when he’d had enough of Porthos. 

Athos finished his gruel in record time and then sat there, his jaws clenched and his hands balled into tight fists.

“He’ll be there,” Porthos said. Of course he would be. He was still a musketeer even if… No, he wouldn’t forget their friendship over this. They’d gone through too much, had grown too close. He’d shout and grumble for a while. They’d fight and then they’d make up, like they always did.

“He better be,” Athos pressed out through gritted teeth. “I will not be humiliated like this.”

He wasn’t there.

Everyone else was, but not Aramis. Tréville arrived and wished them a good morning and still, no sign of Aramis. Athos’ face burned with shame. Of course Tréville noticed. Of course everyone else did as well. Once again, there were whispers.

Tréville gave the orders for the day and found some encouraging words for them all. The siege was taking its toll, but everyone else had managed to still show up for duty. Next to Porthos, Athos was standing so stiffly, he vibrated with tension.

After dismissing the men, the captain came over to them. He didn’t seem angry, just curious.

“Where’s Aramis?” he asked. “Has he been taken unwell?”

“Excuse us while we make some enquiries,” Athos said. His voice sounded deadly. Porthos didn’t blame him. Making enquiries into the state of Madame Couture’s bed was hardly something they should have to do.

“What’s the matter?” Tréville asked. “Do you need assistance?”

“We will manage.”

By now, Tréville looked worried. “What are you hiding from me?”

“I assure you, Aramis is quite _fine_ ,” Athos said pointedly. “I also assure you that he won’t be when I find him. I can only apologise for my fellow musketeer’s impertinent behaviour.”

Tréville frowned. “Bring him back here. I want a full report of this as well as the events of last night.”

Athos sucked in a sharp breath, saluted very formally, and marched off. Porthos had to hurry to keep up with him as he strode towards the village and the house of Madame Couture. He hoped that Aramis had said his prayers that morning. He’d need God on his side when Athos found him.

“I’ll cut of his cock and stuff it down his throat.” Athos’ hand twitched towards his sword. “I’m not interested in excuses.”

Porthos found it hard to disagree, but he tried. “Maybe someone in the village was ill,” he said.

“Then he should have sent a messenger.”

Athos hadn’t unclenched his jaws since breakfast. Every word was pressed through his teeth

“Maybe he’ll be more suited to the life of a choir boy,” Athos continued. “We’re at war and he cannot keep it in his pants long enough to appear at morning muster.”

Porthos had never seen Athos so angry. And he agreed with him. He couldn’t believe Aramis would neglect his duty because of some mistress. Heaven help him explain that one away. First to Athos and then to Tréville. Porthos winced. Good luck with that. But Aramis only had himself to blame. Well, himself and the charms of Madame Couture.

“Keep an eye on the back,” Athos said when they stopped in front of her cottage. “If he tries to escape…”

He had run out of threats. Instead he shook himself and rapped at the door with so much force that Porthos feared for his knuckles.

“Open up,” Athos cried. “Open or we’ll break down this door.”

They wouldn’t need to if he kept hammering like that. Porthos felt eyes on them, curious neighbours peeking from behind curtains.

Finally, the door opened. Athos stepped forward and came face to face with Madame Couture. The sleeves of her dress were rolled up to the elbows and she wore a crisp white apron. She looked like a woman at work and not of the sort of work you did on your back.

“Messieurs,” she said. “How may I—”

“Where is he?”

“Where’s who?” she asked back, looking confused.

“Don’t try this with me.” Athos snarled. Panic rose in her eyes as he came closer.

“Where’s Aramis?” Porthos asked. “We have no quarrel with you, but he needs to come with us.”

“Aramis? But I haven’t seen—”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare lie to the King’s musketeers. We know that you have been—”

“Athos,” Porthos hissed. “Not here.”

Whatever Aramis had or hadn’t done to her, they didn’t need to get the woman into any more trouble. Not with all the neighbours listening in.

Athos froze. “Apologies, Madame.” He bowed. “I forget myself. Would you be able to inform us of our companion’s whereabouts?”

Madame Couture looked unsettled by this sudden change and eyed them warily. Porthos didn’t blame her.

“Is he in trouble?” she asked. Curse her perceptiveness.

“We merely seek to speak to him.” Athos told lies so smoothly they never stood out. “Would you be so kind as to tell us where we might find him?”

She was wringing her hands now, clearly upset. She was no idle woman; her hands were rough with hard labour. Rough hands. Something Aramis couldn’t stand. Porthos shook his head. That was hardly relevant now.

“I’m so sorry, Messieurs,” Madame Couture said. “I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know about Monsieur Aramis.”

“But you saw him?”

“Yes, yes, I did. He wanted… sage and some chamomile and… for his medicines, you know.”

“When was that?” Porthos asked. His stomach clenched with ugly premonition.

“Last Wednesday,” she said. “Wednesday is market day and he wanted to—”

“Thank you for your assistance, Madame,” Athos said.

His voice echoed in Porthos’ hollow head. Last Wednesday. Last Wednesday and not last night. Last Wednesday and not when… not… Oh God… He vaguely noted that Athos was leading him away from the house. Away from prying eyes because… because Aramis… Oh God…

“Porthos,” Athos said urgently. “Focus.”

Porthos swallowed and tried to… Aramis… Oh God, oh God, no, please…

“Where is he?” Athos asked.

Porthos stared at him. He’d been so sure. He’d known Aramis was here. He’d have some ridiculous excuse and Athos would shout and Tréville would shake his head and then everything would be fine. And now Aramis wasn’t… But he couldn’t be… If he was… he’d be with them and he wasn’t, so he…

“Has he mentioned another woman?” Athos pressed.

No woman. Of course he wouldn’t be with a woman. Not when it interfered with his duty. He’d told Athos what he did at night could never affect him in the morning and he held himself to the same standard. Of course he wasn’t with a woman, of course he never had been, of course…

“Porthos, answer me!” Athos barked. “Is there anyone else he could be with?”

Porthos shook his head. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t miss muster, not ever. He didn’t miss out on… he’d been at morning muster almost as soon as he could stand after Savoy. He wouldn’t miss it, not unless… Porthos’ stomach clenched painfully.

Athos braced himself against a low wall. “Has he…” His voice caught in his throat. “Would he ever… do you think he would… desert?”

“No.”

That wasn’t a question Porthos had to think about. He wouldn’t. Never. There wasn’t a chance in hell that Aramis would even think about… It wasn’t who he was and it wasn’t… never.

“I have to ask,” Athos said. “We’re at war. He isn’t with the regiment. He isn’t here. You don’t think he’s elsewhere. It’s… there aren’t many options.”

“He would never…” Porthos shook his head. Not Aramis.

Athos sighed. “I know, but… it’s not been easy on him and you mentioned you had… that you had a disagreement last night.”

“About him following our orders to the letter. Not about… he wouldn’t, Athos. Not after Savoy. Not after Marsac…”

Athos shuddered. “Yes, of course. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Porthos looked at him. “You shouldn’t, but…” His voice was barely more than a whisper now. “What’s the alternative?”

Athos bit down fiercely on his lip. “He’s too badly injured to come home.”

The air rushed from Porthos’ lungs, Athos’ words hitting him like a punch to the gut.

“I left him,” he gasped. “I should have waited. I should have been there.”

“Porthos,” Athos said. “It’s no use—”

Porthos doubled over, clutching his stomach in pain. “A cannon ball. They were shooting and I thought… they never hit us. I was just one man, they wouldn’t hit me, but he… he was still in that mill. Oh God… Oh God…”

He sank forward until Athos grabbed his arms. “If what you say is true, staying might have cost both of your lives. Don’t you dare suggest that would be better.”

Their lives… Aramis’ life. And he should have been there. No matter what Athos said, he should have been there. He should never have left. He was there with Aramis, for Aramis, and then he left. He abandoned his post, his brother, his friend. He left him alone to… to… No, no, please no.

Athos’ fingers dug into his flesh. “We’ll look,” he said. “We’ll send out people to search.”

And find… what? Aramis, broken and bruised. Aramis buried alive under the rubble of the mill. Aramis, alone. And what if… if it had been a direct hit then… Bile rose in Porthos’ throat.

“Come,” Athos said, dragging him upright by his arms. “We need to inform Tréville. We will get the whole regiment together. Question the guards about the events of last night.”

Porthos’ throat tightened. Last night. The night he left Aramis alone to… to…

“I left him,” he whispered. 

“And you’ll find him,” Athos said. “I swear on all of our lives; we will find Aramis.”


	2. Chapter 2

Waking up the next morning, Aramis stretched his sore shoulders. Not an uncommon side-effect of spending days hunched over a musket. The things no one ever told you about the glory of being a sniper. Aramis would definitely not mention that it made him feel older than Methuselah. He groaned when his shoulder blade scraped over the stone floor. Porthos must have pushed him off his bedroll again. That man needed more space to lie down than a horse.

But hold on… why was he on the floor? He could have sworn it was still his turn to sleep on the bed. He was certain of it. Nobody was injured or ill. No reason at all to relegate him to the bedroll, or by the feel of it, the floor of all places.

“Oi,” he said, sitting up. Or trying to. Trying and failing to sit up.

Aramis’ eyes flew open, sleepy fog clearing from his brain instantly. His hands and feet were bound and this—he blinked his eyes—this wasn’t their room at Aytré. Walls that should have been whitewashed were roughly hewn from the rock and the floor was no better. The window through which the early morning light filtered was high up on the far wall and very small. Too small, probably, even if he could manage to remove the two bars. A heavy wooden door opposite blocked the only other exit. Because he would exit. He didn’t know where he was or why, but he did know that he had no desire to be wherever he was.

Right. Ties first. He flexed his feet. Fantastic, he was in his socks. He grimaced. Always a glorious escape in nought but your stocking feet. He glanced down and spotted one of his bare toes. He knew he should have mended those socks. But at least the lack of boots gave him more flexibility now. He continued to wriggle. Rough rope bit into his flesh as he tried to stretch. Annoyingly sturdy, not much give at all. He tried again, pulling his feet apart with more force. He stopped quickly, sucking in a sharp breath. They really could have left him his boots. He’d cut himself to the bone trying to break those bonds with nothing more than a bit of yarn to cushion his skin.

Fine. Hands, then. Athos said it was wise to always free one’s hands first. Aramis liked to argue the opposite view, mainly because it wound Athos up, but he also wasn’t a strong believer in the awkward hobbling escape. Awkward hobbling in his socks. Nothing like it to make him look a proper hero. Anyways. Hands. Not much wriggle room there either. Not cutting off his blood flow, but not giving him an opportunity for escape either. Somebody knew what they were doing. How annoying.

Somebody… which brought him to one rather important question—who had imprisoned him? And why? And, possibly the most interesting question of the lot, how?

As for the “who” there really weren’t too many options in the middle of a siege. Besieger or besieged? The Huguenots were the obvious suspects, but they were also currently confined to their city, so how likely they were to imprison anyone was up for debate. Which left the royal forces—unless one wanted to count the English, but there hadn’t been any reports of recent landings. Being a part of the royal forces should make it somewhat unlikely that he’d been kidnapped by them, but Aramis had been in the army long enough to know that men did all sorts of things once they got bored. But try as he might, he couldn’t think of anyone in particular that he had upset recently. Ah… well… except Porthos. But Porthos got him out of imprisonment, not into it, so that wasn’t really an option either.

That argument with Porthos… They’d have to talk about that. He didn’t think he was wrong about what he’d said. He was following orders after all; they all were. But he could have said it a bit better, a bit kinder. He knew Porthos felt for the people, no matter which side they were on. It was one of his most endearing qualities and Aramis had meant him no disrespect. They’d have to talk about that. But it would have to wait. First, they had to get him out of captivity.

He tried to twist his wrists and arched his back to get more leverage. All that did was to make his tight shoulders twinge and the rope bite into his skin. He shuffled until he was somewhat comfortable again. As comfortable as he could be on the floor of a room he shouldn’t be in.

That argument was the last thing he remembered. Porthos had left and a few minutes later there’d been a cannon shot. Aramis had peered out of the mill’s window to make sure Porthos hadn’t been hit. Then he’d sat and polished his muskets for a bit until the light got too dim and he figured he’d rather not stray off the path and into the marsh in the dark. And maybe it was late enough to go straight to bed and avoid the tedious discussion of morality they’d want to have. So he’d shouldered his muskets and climbed down the stairs. And then…

Then nothing. Nothing until he woke up here in this… cellar, dungeon, place.

His thoughts were rudely interrupted by the sound of steps. He shuffled side-ways as quickly as he could with his bound limbs, trying to get his back to a wall. Being attacked from all sides when alone and barely able to move was not ideal. He tested his bonds again but didn’t have the time to work out how to loosen them. Shame. He preferred to meet his captors with a heavy object to the head or a sword to the throat.

The door opened with a loud screech. Bad news for any clandestine escape that way. Two young men stepped inside. Aramis frowned. They could have hesitated at least a little, anticipating that he might have freed himself and was about to attack. They were either very foolish or very confident in their skill. He prayed it was the former.

“Ah, the hosts of this charming establishment,” he said. “If you’re after my breakfast order, I’d prefer my eggs with some bacon today.”

The taller of the men made to kick him viciously in the shins, which Aramis managed to avoid by jerking his legs upward, earning him a boot to the knee instead. Bright lights flashed in front of his eyes.

“I take it, it’s a fast day then,” he said, smiling despite the pain. “Please excuse my confusion, I am not intimately familiar with your customs and meant no offence.”

They stood and glowered at him, which gave him time to assess the situation. The two were around his age, maybe a little younger, and looked fairly strong, if a bit on the lanky side. Soldiers, perhaps, though neither carried a weapon. Curiously, they also didn’t wear any protective garments, just ordinary linen shirts and trousers. Was leather against the Huguenot beliefs? Might explain why they’d stripped him down to his shirtsleeves.

Other than undressing, what did they want? It was an odd situation, captured by the people he had been holding captive for the better part of a year. If that’s what this was. If they were Huguenots. He should probably figure that out first.

He smiled at the scowling men. “Now, gentlemen, where might this fine establishment be?” he asked.

They glared at him but said nothing.

“Where are we?” Aramis tried again. Probably better to use small words.

The shorter one snorted. “You know where you are.”

Aramis worked hard to keep that smile on his face. “I’m terribly sorry, but I must have missed part of the journey. Or… come to think of it… I might have missed all of it.”

“You’re in La Rochelle. At least have the decency to acknowledge it.”

“Ah.” Aramis nodded. “La Rochelle, of course. Now see, I’ve seen quite a bit of it in recent years, but never once entered the city.”

The taller man stomped his feet. “Scum. Shouldn’t have brought you here.”

Very interesting… so he disagreed. Disagreed with whoever made the decision and with whatever the reason for bringing him here was. Not like Aramis had been begging to be taken away. He’d see the city soon enough, no pressing need for a tour before the siege had ended. It must have been some undertaking to knock him out—Aramis assumed that’s what they had done, probably easier than drugging him or any of that—and then drag him all the way back and into the city in the dark. If the ground was treacherous enough to make food thieves brave the dusk, it would be no great joy to carry a man across it at night. They must have had some reason for doing so.

“What’s your name?” the shorter man asked.

Ah, questions. That was a good sign. He could do questions. Much better than… well, than them wanting to kill him, which tended to be the other reason he found himself in captivity.

“René d’Herblay,” Aramis said without hesitation. They’d have little joy with the name he left behind years ago. “What’s yours?”

The only answer was a kick to the gut. Holy Mother of Mercy, that hurt. He curled forward to protect himself from more pain. It was difficult to move with his bound limbs, but he tried to give them as small a target as possible. He had to attempt to prevent any damage. They could hurt him, but he wouldn’t let them do anything that would disable him. He had to be fit enough to escape and broken ribs and internal bleeding wouldn’t help with that at all.

Too bad the two gaolers didn’t share his concern. The taller one grabbed Aramis’ hair and dragged him up until he was forced to unfold his legs and get them under himself.

“You don’t speak until you’re spoken to. We ask the questions here.”

Oh, very dramatic. Aramis smirked at him. “You’d better get on with it then.”

The man swung him around by his hair and threw him across the room. Porthos might have a point, he should really learn how to hold his tongue on occasion. The man certainly thought so. He pressed Aramis face first against the jagged stone wall. This wasn’t doing his fabled complexion any favours.

“So eager to die, little rat?”

Aramis could feel the man’s hot breath against his neck.

Die or give answers, which is it going to be? He managed to think and not say that. Porthos would be proud. He wondered, though… Did they expect him to cooperate and beg for mercy before they ultimately killed him? If they did, he had bad news for them. He’d leave before it got to that point. He’d figure something out himself or Porthos and Athos would free him. Whatever these men planned; they wouldn’t get to carry it out.

He was roughly turned around, swaying on his bound feet before the back of his head hit the rock. He couldn’t quite hide a groan, which elicited a sadistic smile from his captor. Had he been the one to knock him out the night before? Now hitting the same spot a second time, maybe?

The man placed his right hand over Aramis’ throat, pressing just hard enough to make it a threat.

“What is your position?” he asked.

“I’m a soldier in King Louis’ army.”

Both men snarled and the pressure on Aramis’ throat increased.

“Are you a sniper?”

Well, they hadn’t run into him at that mill by sheer happenstance, so they already knew the answer to that. But Aramis wouldn’t sign his own death warrant by admitting it.

“I’m a soldier in King Louis’ army,” he repeated.

The man squeezed. Aramis felt his fingers dig in. All the different parts in his throat were ground together. Blood pulsed in his ears and he could not breathe. His hands fluttered uselessly in front of his stomach. The men smiled.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” The shorter man sounded pleased. “How many are there?”

The hand around his throat relaxed slightly and Aramis sucked in a big breath, preparing himself for the next strangulation.

“How many?” the taller man repeated, digging his thumb into the soft flesh under Aramis’ ear.

Aramis breathed in again, not wasting the opportunity. A slight tightening of the fingers reminded him to speak.

“There are tens of thousands of us. And a thousand more ready to join for every one of—”

His breath was cut off again. The men didn’t say anything, but their smiles never faltered. They swam in and out of focus as Aramis fought to stay conscious. He couldn’t live without air and he hoped very much that they realised that, that they knew enough to stop in time.

_Pater noster, qui es in caelis..._

He prayed silently, giving his mind something to focus on. He couldn’t pass out. It was always so inconvenient to try and rescue an unconscious friend. He wouldn’t do that to them. His body was telling him to let go, to give in, but he knew he had to stay alert.

_Sanctificetur nomen tuum;_

_adveniat regnum tuum…_

Air, blessed air. Aramis sucked it in greedily, clearing the blackness from his eyes and the ringing from his ears. He had been drowning once again, but not any more. They had seen sense, let him breathe, let him live…

“How many snipers?”

Praised be the Lord. Praised be the Lord for their questions. Questions, not death, at least not yet. He needed time, needed to give them time to rescue him. He’d be fine if he could just hold out a little longer. They’d come and get him soon.

“Many,” he said. “A rifle trained on every gate, on every man who dares to sneak—”

“That was my cousin, you wretch.” The man growled and tightened his grip again.

_Pater noster, qui es in caelis_

_sanctificetur nomen tuum;_

_adveniat regnum tuum_

_fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra._

_Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie;_

_et dimitte nobis debita nostra..._

Forgive. Forgive him. Forgive them. Father, forgive. Aramis craved forgiveness. And air. Forgiveness. He had to focus on that. Forgiveness, forgiveness. Forgive him. Forgive them. Forgive, forgive, forgive… Forgive him so much. Forgive them… for this. But forgive him… much more. Leaving them and Porthos… fighting with Porthos… forgive…

The pressure on his throat disappeared. Air, air, air… He vaguely registered that he was flying across the room, landing in a heap on the floor. It hurt, but air… air was precious to him. Air, air… and somewhere in the distance, voices, angry voices. He tried to calm, to regulate his breathing.

_Pater noster, qui es in caelis…_

He could fall into the familiar rhythm of the Lord’s Prayer. Let himself be carried, be anchored by the words like he had been all his life. They felt like coming home, so familiar, so often said, so often heard, so often thought. As long as he had his prayer, he wouldn’t break. He wouldn’t talk and he wouldn’t give, but he would pray.

_Sanctificetur nomen tuum…_

A kick to the groin left him sputtering. The pain… But he had to focus, had to breathe. Had to stay conscious, had to stay whole… or at least whole enough to still be able to escape. He just needed to last long enough for his friends to arrive. They would take care of the rest. All he had to do was to still be there. Be well enough to be rescued. Not make this difficult for them.

Kicks started to fall hard and fast, a furious storm of hail. He curled in on himself again, protecting his vital organs and ribs as much as he could. He would be here. He would be alive; he would be well.

He changed track. He never seemed to get through the Lord’s Prayer anyways. He needed something shorter and he needed something more. He continued to pray, but now he did it out loud.

_“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.”_

His throat was sore and the words came out raspy, but he knew the Holy Virgin wouldn’t mind. The kicks hurt more. His ribs, his back, his legs… they kicked him everywhere. They couldn’t reach what was most important though. They couldn’t reach his faith, not his faith in God, nor the faith in his friends.

_“Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.”_

Blessed, blessed, so blessed… Blessed was She and blessed was he to still be here. Blessed was he to know he could endure. So many had tortured him over the years and he always endured. So many had tried to break him and make him speak. It wasn’t like these Huguenot minions were the most imaginative. Quite the contrary. He could handle kicks. He could handle this. He could pray himself calm. He could pray himself invincible. They weren’t the first to torture him and they wouldn’t be the last either.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t free or even protect himself, but he could do this, he could pray. And he did. As long as he prayed, he hadn’t given in. He could show them he was unbroken. He could show himself.

_“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.”_

Pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death. And this wouldn’t be his. This wasn’t his death. This was him holding out. Holding out to be rescued by his friends. The hour of his death lay far, far away. He would live and they would come and then, then God help those who had sinned against him.

_“Amen,”_ he shouted after a particularly cruel kick.

“Stop,” another voice shouted at the same time. “Halt this madness. Can’t you hear that he’s a man of faith? Now show some respect.”

Silence fell. All three of them stared at the man who had entered the room.

Now the kicks had stopped, pain flooded Aramis’ body in waves. It was all-encompassing. He couldn’t tell where he was hurt or how badly. He couldn’t make out any individual injuries. The immensity overwhelmed him, dragged him down until he could feel his consciousness fray. Pain wasn’t bad, but pain that he couldn’t comprehend, that he couldn’t use as information and guidance, that sort of pain served no purpose. He forced it down and focussed on what the man had said.

Respect. They hadn’t shown the slightest regard for the other's religion for a very, very long time. And now, a year into this siege, this guy spoke of respect?

Aramis laughed.

It was surreal. Respect. Respect when his whole body hurt like he was a clump of metal on the anvil. Respect when thousands had died in the name of religion, when they all knew that thousands more would follow. Respect when for years they had killed and hurt and been hurt in return.

He looked up at the man. He was tall and broad, a fine man in early middle age. Old enough to know better. Old enough to have seen more of this war than this siege. Distinguished enough to know better than to talk of some misguided notion of chivalry.

There was no question that he was their leader. He didn’t wear any armour, but his clothes were rich, the shirt sporting a fashionable wide collar with fanciful embroidery. But more than that it was his bearing and the reactions of his minions to his presence. They deferred to him, but not in fear. He had what he’d asked them to show Aramis—their respect.

Aramis’ laugh caught in his throat and turned into a cough.

He berated himself for his stupidity. They’d been toying with him, but their leader was here now. He’d overestimated the time available to him. His henchman had arrived. It was too late. His execution was imminent. The time for questions and kicks had passed.

He could tell that this man meant business. He wasn’t one to while away the day. And the first order of his day was probably going to be Aramis’ death. Which Aramis himself was categorically opposed to. He tried to think fast, had to. He had to come up with a way out and one that didn’t involve Athos and Porthos coming to his rescue. As much as he hoped they might, he had to acknowledge they were fast running out of time. He better rescue himself before they risked their lives to retrieve his corpse.

The newcomer gave a curt nod and the two men took a few steps back. Their shoes made a hollow clonking sound on the floor. Wooden soles, of course… that explained how painful the kicks had been. Aramis craned his neck, keeping their leader’s face within his sights. The man was armed and looked like one who’d know how to wield his blades. Leading by example. A leader like Tréville.

Aramis’ assessment was immediately shown to be true when the man knelt next to him and held out his main gauche.

“I shall cut your bonds,” he said, his deep voice calm and pleasant. “I will not ask for your word that you won’t try to escape but know that there isn’t a soul in this town that does not want you dead.”

Aramis nodded.

The man smiled, the expression at odds with the hardness in his eyes. “I’m pleased you understand, musketeer.”

Musketeer. Aramis sucked in a breath through his teeth. How did he know? Aramis hadn’t said, he was certain of that. He’d anchored himself in prayer. He’d made sure he had something to say and it wasn’t anything they wanted to hear. He hadn’t been far enough gone, not anywhere close to being hurt enough to divulge any secrets. But if he hadn’t said, then how did they know?

The blade sliced through the rope around his feet. Aramis wriggled his toes, feeling the blood rush back. Movement hurt, but he needed his mobility back. At his wrist, the steel lingered on his pulse. Aramis could feel the cold seep through the thin skin. It coursed through his body with his blood, the threat of it clear. As his hands were freed, the tip of the dagger nicked the ball of his thumb. A small enough slip to be accidental, but the glint in the man’s eyes suggested otherwise.

Aramis stared at the drops of blood beading from the cut. What did it mean? Being a musketeer, a man who was more than likely known personally to the king… did it make him more valuable to his captor, more worthy of being kept alive for questioning? Or did it make him more likely to be handed over to the mob?

The two men glared at him over their leader’s shoulder. They wouldn’t forgive. Cousin or no, Aramis knew that his actions, as well as his position, made him a target for these men, even more than his allegiance and religion did. He’d shown them he was the enemy, had killed one of their own in front of them. He’d make the ideal scapegoat for their suffering. It would have been much the same, had their roles been reversed.

Their commander held out his hand and pulled Aramis to his feet. He gave the fresh wound a tight squeeze, still smiling pleasantly. Aramis refused to acknowledge the pain, looking calmly back at him. For a moment, the man inclined his head. He was a soldier, it seemed, despite his current attire. Or if not a soldier then certainly one who could see courage in his enemy. They were henchman and prisoner, but not devoid of all respect.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The entire chapter deals with warfare, but there are two particular sections you might want to skip:   
> A mention of child death: “In Aramis’ ears,… Guiton gave him a tired smile”  
> Brief mention of rape “Guiton’s eyes looked straight into the dark recesses of his heart… Aramis reared back as if he’d been shot.”

“Thank you, Hassard,” the man said, rising from a simple wooden chair. “You may leave us. I wish to speak to the gentleman alone.”

Aramis blinked. His eyes were slow to adjust to the glaring white light flooding through the tall windows on the opposite wall. It had to be midday now.

Some silent conversation passed between the man and his underling. When he spoke again, a sharp note had crept into his voice. “I am quite capable of handling myself and you won’t be far.”

The gaoler grunted a reply, clearly not happy, but unable to contradict his commander. Aramis agreed with him, leaving no guards in the room even if they were close by seemed foolish to him. One on one he could take any man. Then again, a fight might create more problems than it solved. The location was wisely chosen. The windows looked out over roofs that were some distance away, perhaps across a square. An escape that way seemed unlikely unless… Aramis scanned the room for anything to aid his flight. The room was bare, all scrubbed floorboards and white walls. A long table stood in the centre and two chairs that barely looked sturdy enough to be suitable weapons. There wasn’t even a table cloth.

Suddenly, Aramis was pushed forward. Pain flared in his abused body as he staggered further into the room. Behind him, the door closed with a solid thud. Aramis struggled to catch himself. They had hobbled him like a horse, tying a short rope between his ankles. While he could walk, he couldn’t take big steps.

A hand caught his forearm and steadied him. Aramis flinched at the intimacy of the gesture, normal between friends, but not between captor and prisoner. The silence lingered, but Aramis was loath to end it, listening intently for steps in the corridor. Steps that never came. The guard stood right outside the unlocked door, ready to pounce. Whatever Aramis did would have to be done quietly.

He straightened and looked at his captor, putting all his defiance in his glare. The man smiled, his impeccable auburn moustache rising as the slight crinkles around his eyes became more pronounced.

“Be my guest, Monsieur,” he said, moving his hand from Aramis’ arm to his wrists, undoing the ties around his hands for the second time that day.

Aramis narrowed his eyes. He was a prisoner, not a guest, so why this constant untying? To make him feel safe and let his guard down?

The man smiled. “We are soldiers, you and I. I see no reason to keep you bound like an animal while we talk.”

Aramis looked pointedly down at his feet and the length of rope between them.

The man smiled again. “Soldiers, not fools. I realise that your presence at this talk might require some… encouragement.”

Aramis snorted. “If you encourage your horses the way your men encouraged me, you’d be lucky to have any left alive.”

The man’s smile faltered and a shadow passed through his eyes. He caught himself quickly and his voice remained unchanged, but Aramis was content that he had, for a moment, broken through his defences.

The man made a show of how unafraid he was of him, turning his back to Aramis. A few fast steps, two hands around his throat… with some skill and God’s aid, he’d be dead before the guard even noticed. But then what? Aramis had no idea where in the city he was, nor any plan for escape. He could untie his feet and using the chairs and table as weapons, he’d overcome the guard who’d brought him in, but not without attracting the attention of whoever else might be out there. They had carefully kept out of sight as he was being led through the corridors and up the stairs, but he knew there would be others. If he lured in one guard, would another take his place? As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t overcome the whole city by himself, weak though it was. Better to keep playing along with it for now. See what they wanted since they apparently weren’t too keen on executing him on the spot.

“Take a seat, Monsieur d’Herblay,” the man said. So he’d been listening from the start, had heard Aramis give his name. Which meant he’d heard him get beaten as well and hadn’t stepped in. That much for compassion and respect. Typical Huguenot.

“Who’s asking?” Aramis shot back.

“My apologies, Monsieur.” The man bowed slightly. “I’m the mayor of La Rochelle, Jean Guiton.”

“Jean Guiton,” Aramis hissed. His hand flew to his left shoulder, rubbing the dark, round scar through his shirt. “They made you mayor now.”

Guiton watched him calmly. “I see, we have met before.”

The old musket wound gave an angry throb and Aramis’ fingers dug into the muscle to ease the pain. Huguenot bastard.

“The Île de Ré, I suppose,” Guiton said. Bastard of a Huguenot admiral. A two-hour battle that got them nowhere, followed by weeks of agony as that wound festered and ate into his flesh.

“It pains me to see you were wounded,” Guiton said.

Aramis withdrew his hand from his shoulder. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing his pain. “The very purpose of your aggression against the king!”

“Capable men like you are a credit to whichever side they fight for. I’m sure you too regret having to injure them.”

Aramis huffed. It was hardly the only wound he’d suffered in the king’s service and many of them at the hand of better men, of god-fearing Catholics. “We got Ré in the end.”

“If the Lord deigns this to be the end, it will be.” Guiton’s unnerving smile returned. “But Cardinal Richelieu keeps such a close eye on Buckingham, it almost seems like he doesn’t believe it is.”

“It’s prudent to monitor every threat, however small,” Aramis said. Of course if the rumours could be believed, Buckingham was anything but a small threat. With the English king’s favour and the might of his fleet, there was no overestimating the danger Buckingham posed.

“As long as France has no proper fleet, it will always be at the mercy of forces like England, Spain, and even men like myself. The King has to invest in a navy.”

Aramis snorted. “I wouldn’t be the one to talk to about that.” He’d be glad to never get on a ship again in all his life.

Guiton nodded. “Forgive me. I thought a musketeer would have the king’s ear.”

Was that what this was? Was he being held for his influence? Well… two could play that game.

“A trust I won’t break for your benefit,” he said.

“Naturally,” Guiton said. “I merely wondered where you stood on the matter.”

“My personal opinion of ships and naval battles is of no relevance. But a navy to rival England’s and Spain’s is an ambition for both the King and the Cardinal,” Aramis said. “You will forgive me if I do not divulge any details.”

Details that he didn’t know, if they even existed. This was hardly a matter they would discuss with a soldier, musketeer or not. But if this Huguenot admiral cum mayor wanted him for his knowledge… then Aramis could certainly pretend he had some intelligence.

“Of course,” Guiton said. “I would not wish for you to betray the confidence of your liege.”

The confidence of a man who wouldn’t know him from any other musketeer. Or the confidence of the cardinal who wished all of them to the innermost circle of hell. Guiton could rest assured that Aramis would not share any of their secrets no matter what torture he was forced to endure.

Guiton sat and gestured for Aramis to do the same.

“1622,” he said. “Nearly six years this war has occupied our lives. My daughters have grown into young women in this time. And you… for you it must have taken much of your youth.”

“A youth spent in the service of one’s king is not taken.”

“Nor one spent in service of one’s God.”

Aramis had nothing to say to that. He’d tried to dedicate himself to God and instead found he was much better at dispatching souls to hell. These Huguenots, however misguided, thought they’d found a way to combine the two.

Guiton didn’t need a response. He nodded. “We’ve both been in this war too long.”

Aramis smiled grimly. Saumur, Saint-Jean-d'Angély, then Montauban, the first siege they didn’t win. On to Royan and the horror of Nègrepelisse. Up and down the country in service to his king, and then the peace they had signed with so much blood hadn’t even lasted the decade.

A soft knock at the door made him tense.

“I hoped you might join me for lunch,” Guiton said.

A young girl entered bearing a tray. She had the same dark red hair as the mayor and Aramis thought he saw a family resemblance. One of his daughters, maybe. He thanked her as she sat down a bowl and cup in front of him, but she didn’t look up. It had been too long since he’d made a pretty maid blush, but now did not seem the appropriate time. The girl left and Aramis couldn’t shake a feeling of loneliness. Soon it was just him and Guiton again, alone in this bare, faded room, not a sound to be heard.

Guiton said grace and Aramis respectfully bowed his head. He meant to say his own prayer, but realised the mayor found much the same words he would have liked to use, so he merely echoed the _Amen._ Some things, it seemed, were not so different.

Guiton obliged him with a smile, eating from both bowls and drinking from both glasses before Aramis was satisfied he wasn’t about to get poisoned. The food was as bland and colourless as their surroundings, but having missed both dinner and breakfast, Aramis’ stomach growled in appreciation.

“So, Monsieur d’Herblay,” Guiton said. “Tell me about the musketeers.”

Aramis took his time, rinsing his mouth with water while he contemplated his answer. Clearly, Guiton wanted information. The skill lay in making him believe he got what he wanted while not giving anything away. He couldn’t seem too eager either.

“The king raised the regiment in 1622. Due to some of my earlier engagements, I had the good fortune to be among the first to join.” Engagements that mainly involved killing Huguenots, though mentioning that would probably ruin the pleasant atmosphere.

Guiton looked at him eagerly. “Then you are a senior officer?”

Aramis swirled the water in his glass as if it were expensive wine. He wasn’t even a junior officer, but saying so would hardly make him seem like a good source of information. “The captain selected me himself,” he said instead. “The regiment is of course the king’s personal guard.”

“You must keep busy during this siege,” Guiton said, seemingly focussed on his meal. If he thought he could catch Aramis off guard, he was sorely mistaken.

“As ever, our duty is to the king,” Aramis said. “We protect him wherever he goes. His majesty’s trust is a great honour.”

“Though of course it is the cardinal who leads the siege.”

Ah, didn’t they all wish that weren’t true? Probably too late to deny it, though. At this point there probably wasn’t a soul left in all of Christendom who didn’t know about Richelieu the warrior, the real supreme commander in this whole affair.

“A few loyal subjects are fortunate to be advisors to the king,” Aramis said, trying to be diplomatic. “My captain among them. I am honoured to accompany him at times.”

He lowered his gaze to the plate but watched the mayor through his lashes. He looked pleased. Influence mattered to him, so Aramis saw no need to mention that the circumstances under which he accompanies Tréville were very limited indeed and usually more punishment than distinction.

“Cardinal Richelieu is a man of God, but not a man of the sword,” he continued. “Tréville and I can provide insights from the perspective of the soldier.”

That the king usually ignored and Richelieu tried his best to discredit, but Guiton didn’t need to know that either.

“You must be in quite a privileged position yourself,” the mayor pressed. “An officer of the musketeers…”

Aramis allowed himself a shy smile. “I aim to serve my king well.” He fidgeted a little. Porthos would laugh at the false display of modesty. Athos would roll his eyes. But this man didn’t know him like they did. “I was very fortunate,” Aramis said. “The Lord guided my hand in saving King Louis’ life some months ago.”

He tried to pitch his behaviour somewhere between devoted soldier and demure maiden. Guiton shouldn’t think he was boasting, but if it was influence he wanted, Aramis would deliver.

“He must be very thankful,” Guiton said. The fish had swallowed the bait.

“His Majesty values chivalry among all else. He recognises that this is a trait we share.” Aramis looked into the distance as if reminiscing. The windows were unlatched, but definitely too high up. “He deems it appropriate to raise me to the order of the Holy—” He shook himself. “You must forgive me, I get too caught up in these tales.”

“Fascinating,” Guiton said. There was a new glint in his eyes as he examined Aramis. “I must admit I had not heard of your family until today, Monsieur d’Herblay.”

He certainly wouldn’t find it when looking at the books of those eligible for the Order of the Holy Spirit. In his heart, his family were the noblest in the land, but nobody else knew of them.

“We prefer to serve unseen.” Aramis tried his best to sound like an enigma, but a very powerful one. If influence over the king was his ticket to a longer life, he could certainly promise that. Best not to dwell on the details, though.

“Like a sniper in the dark,” Guiton said. Aramis did his best not to flinch. The impossible shot the night before… the scrawny young men it killed… He had probably been the mayor’s cousin, too.

Aramis focused on his meal again. The thin strips of meat were chewy and rather tasteless.

“My compliments to the cook,” he said, nonetheless.

“Our thanks to you for providing the meat.”

The meat? Aramis stared at the mayor. While his whole body hurt, he was reasonably sure he would have noticed if he’d been eating his own arm or maybe his left buttock.

Guiton smiled. Really quite unnerving, particularly in matters of cannibalism. Surely, not even the Huguenots condoned that.

“You will have noticed,” Guiton said, examining a piece of meat on his spoon. “That this meat doesn’t quite taste like anything you’ve had before.”

Well, no. It wouldn’t if it was freshly cooked musketeer. Aramis wriggled his toes just to make sure he still had all ten. They dutifully caught in the holes of his socks.

“You see,” Guiton continued. “As a matter of fact, it _is_ something you have had for a long time, just never in quite the same way.”

He took a bite, savouring it like a man who tasted ambrosia.

“We have found that leather makes an excellent substitute for meat. But none has been as fine as this prime cut—your pauldron.”

“My—” Aramis sputtered and let a half-chewed piece of meat or leather, rather, drop back onto his plate. “What on earth…”

He stared at the dish. Despite not eating for nearly a full day, his appetite vanished. Eating leather. That explained the lack of boots. The thought made him gag.

“Cooked properly, it is, as you have seen, much like meat,” Guiton said.

Much like… but… His pauldron. The second one he’d lost that year. Wouldn’t Tréville just love that? My apologies, captain, I’ve eaten it.

“My eldest daughter has become quite adept at cooking it,” Guiton said.

Of course, the siege, the lack of supplies. That was the point of it all. Starve them out.

“She’ll cook it fricassee-style with a bit of tallow and water,” the mayor continued. “Or make jams out of it with some sugar.”

The most disgusting thing Aramis had ever heard and he’d had detailed conversations about gangrenous wounds.

“Why don’t you eat cats and dogs like normal people?” he asked. The respectable thing that people under siege had done throughout history. But apparently that wasn’t good enough for filthy Huguenots.

Guiton smiled. “If you believe any of them lasted the winter, you overestimate the number of animals in this town.”

“But there are ways to…” To survive, to… Porthos had told him. The things he ate growing up...

Guiton nodded. “This was hardly our first choice. As mayor I should be proud of the new cleanliness of La Rochelle. I have not seen a mouse in months.”

“The rats leaving the sinking ship,” Aramis said before he could stop himself.

“I’m happy to report we did not let a single one leave,” Guiton said. “And fortunately I know a thing or two about ships.”

“Maybe you should have stuck to those.” Maybe he was a good admiral, but this… this was beyond his skill to steer.

Guiton did not look upset with him. “We all do our duty.”

Aramis jumped up to pace the room. The rope between his feet tripped him up and he stumbled, then shortened his strides.

“How many have died?”

“The old, the young…”

Guiton did not finish the sentence. He stared out the window instead. The infants and elderly were expected to die, but in the lingering silence Aramis heard about the others. He stopped and turned to face the man. Guiton kept himself very straight, his face carefully blank, but Aramis was struck by how tired he looked.

“This is madness,” he said. “Eating leather, people dying. As a mayor, a father, a man… You’ve got to end this!”

Guiton raised an eyebrow. “As a soldier in the royal army, surely you don't mind death.”

Death, death, death… Aramis braced himself on the window ledge and stared out into the glaring midday sun to clear the unbidden images from his brain. Bright light to chase away the night and heat to melt the ice. He clenched his teeth.

“I do mind.”

Guiton stood and strode over to the window.

“Even the deaths of Huguenots?”

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut. Yes, they were here to starve them out, to kill them, to end this impertinence, this uprising. Duty. Duty to the king and to God. They all did their part. Deaths of Huguenots were the goal. All their weapons and yet the deadliest was the one they didn’t wield. Hunger.

“We are all God’s children,” he said, hoping the tears did not show in his eyes.

_You and your soft heart. It’ll be the end of you one day._

They looked out over the city. Its colours had faded like those of threadbare clothing after too many washes. The window overlooked a square, but no market took place, no merchant offered his wares, no housewives haggled for produce. Usually, whenever there was hunger there were those savvy enough to exploit it. One bad harvest and prices in Paris rose like fireworks. In La Rochelle, nothing moved. There wasn’t anything to be bought or sold.

They watched a woman trudge across the square to the fountain, her steps unsteady and slow like an old crone’s. And yet her hair was dark and her back straight. She was young. They watched her clutch the fountain for support, then drink greedily.

In Aramis’ ears, Porthos’ voice told him that water could fill the stomach for a while and take away the worst of the pain.

“She’s lost three children already,” Guiton said. “Lord have mercy with us all.”

Aramis’ fingers turned to claws on the window ledge until he could feel the soft wood give under his nails.

“Why don’t you show her some?” he asked. In his mind, Athos admonished him to watch his tongue, but Aramis didn’t care. To watch a woman, young and beautiful before the hunger, struggle and stumble like this, to let her bury her children… For what?

“Wish it were in my hands to give life to my people,” Guiton said.

“You dole out death instead.” The little Athos in his mind grimaced and told him he shouldn’t aggravate the one man who could stay his execution. Aramis pushed on regardless. “You have to end this siege. Surrender! For her sake if not for your own.”

Guiton gave him a tired smile. He too looked decades older than his years. What would the consequences be? Could their fate still be averted? If any of them survived, what would their bodies be like a year or ten from now?

“I cannot surrender.”

“You can. The king… Just say the word.” Oh God, help this man see sense. “Your people are dying. You have to. Please.”

Guiton shook his head. “I don’t think you would be willing to give up your own religion like that.”

“What does this have to do with—” Aramis stopped himself. Everything, of course. When the last great Huguenot stronghold fell, their special rights would disappear, their religion would wither and… was that a bad thing?

“I heard you in the cellar,” Guiton said. “Your fervent prayer.”

Aramis stood up straighter, ignoring the aches and pains in his body. His prayers had seen him through much worse than this.

“You believe,” Guiton said.

“Of course, I do.”

“You really do. Your life, your strength is built on God. It’s the same for me.”

“But that doesn’t mean—”

Guiton stopped him with a raised hand. “Think carefully now,” he warned. “You prayed, loudly and in Latin, when you knew you were captured by Protestants and helpless in their hands. You risked them taking offence and killing you for the comfort you found in those familiar words.”

He hadn’t thought that much. He had prayed like he always did because yes, it was a comfort to him. A way to shut the pain away and focus on… well, on the ritual. The mayor seemed to take his silence for assent.

“Your religion means a lot to you,” he said. “As mine does to me.”

Aramis wanted to protest, wanted to say that his religion was right and the true path to enlightenment where Guiton’s was an abomination, but somehow it was irrelevant. There was a wider argument at play.

“But is religion worth more than life itself?”

“You tell me. Your actions this morning seem to suggest it is.”

Did they? He was a soldier. Damn it, he knew that some things were more important than life. His life, the lives of his brothers, of all the regiment. Some things were worth dying for. He looked down at the square, the fountain where the young woman had stood. Was this one of those things?

“Despite my prayers, I didn’t expect you to let me live,” Aramis said.

“Do you think I expect the king to let us live?” Guiton asked.

Well… yes. Generally, that would be expected of a leader. And yet… Aramis bit down on his lip. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Let me show you something,” Guiton said, beckoning for Aramis to follow.

The soldier, Hassard, was still outside the door, but once again Aramis didn’t see anyone else as the mayor guided him through the corridors. Still, he was certain the walls and doors and dark corners had eyes and quite possibly weapons trained on him. His life was cheap in La Rochelle.

Guiton pushed open a tall door between a pair of imposing old portraits. The room beyond lay in darkness. As Aramis’ eyes adjusted, he could make out walls paneled with dark wood. Behind him, the heavy door thudded shut. The floor was the same nearly-black wood and in the centre of the room stood a large table surrounded by heavy chairs upholstered in deepest crimson. A grand old room displaying the riches of the port.

The mayor drew one of the long curtains. Blood-red brocade slid back and blinding light rushed in. Dust danced in the air. With the sun in his back, Guiton’s hair glowed like fire. But Aramis’ eyes were drawn to a glimmer on the table. The huge oval of polished wood was marred by a glinting dagger thrust deep into its heart.

Aramis was drawn to it as if by invisible reins. He stretched out his hand, but let it hover awkwardly. The handle was gilded, the workmanship striking. A fine weapon. Not a ceremonial weapon either if the slight marks and notches were anything to go by. Well cared for, but also well used. And currently half embedded into what looked like the city’s council table.

“I told them I would be mayor if they really wanted me to,” Guiton said. “But behold this knife.”

He stroked the coat of arms on the pommel, his hand so close that Aramis could almost feel the crackle of invisible lightning between them.

“I swore I would stick it in the heart of the first one who talked of surrender and asked to be stabbed likewise if I should ever propose to capitulate.”

“Not ever?”

“The King of England could be mediator between our two sides. I would accept is intercession.”

Aramis shook his head. “Richelieu would never allow it.”

“King Louis could meet him as an equal,” Guiton insisted.

“Never.”

“We need somebody to speak for us.” Guiton kept staring at the dagger in the table, his face unreadable. Regret? Determination? A desperate plea? Aramis couldn’t tell.

“Why?” he asked.

Guiton smiled bitterly. “What is one city against a kingdom?”

Aramis raised his eyebrows. “A rather lengthy inconvenience, if you ask me.”

The hint of hurt in the other man’s eye made him regret his flippant tone.

“Why negotiate if you won’t surrender?” he asked more kindly.

The mayor traced his fingers slowly along the hilt of the dagger. Whose heart would he most like to pierce with it?

“Not unconditionally,” he said so softly Aramis could barely hear.

“Conditions?” Aramis snorted. What conditions did they want? Did they want a reward for their revolt? An extension of their religious freedom? Was that worth so much?

“You must understand.” For the first time, Guiton sounded pleading. “I have five daughters.”

And Aramis had a mother and sisters he cared about. And he would never… he would not watch them die for some illusion. Not even for the truth, the religion he and they lived and breathed.

“And you sacrifice them in this life for glory in the next?” he asked. “You let your daughters starve and lead them to certain death because you cannot swallow your pride? What sort of father are you?”

Guiton’s hand tightened on the dagger. Fine, then. He could give Aramis an excuse. He’d be easily disarmed. Easily killed. And maybe killing the lunatic would be better for all concerned. Aramis couldn’t believe that he had been drawn in by that man and almost convinced to show sympathy for his plight. A father who would sacrifice his children on the altar of his vanity.

“Starvation rather than…” Guiton’s voice broke. He took a moment to compose himself. “What if we surrendered without condition? What would happen? You start killing here and then? A second Saint-Barthélemy?”

Aramis frowned at the mention of that bloody day so many years ago. “There wouldn’t be a massacre,” he said with more certainty than he felt. Hadn’t he only just thought of killing this man?

Guiton looked up at him, his eyes overflowing. “Saint-Barthélemy started with only a handful of my brethren that King Charles ordered dead and then it spread, around Paris and the whole of France, leaving tens of thousands dead.”

“It would not be—”

“There are tens of thousands dying here today,” Guiton said. “If La Rochelle falls… We’re the last bastion between those of our faith and the next massacre. How many dead then? How many Huguenots left in France? Would you slaughter us all?”

“Nobody wants to…” Aramis couldn’t finish the lie. Nobody? Really? He wasn’t the only one who’d lost people in these wars. Not the only one who’d spent years of his life killing Huguenots. The last one less than a day ago. A young man whose face or name he’d never know, one more unremembered soul on his endless tally.

Guiton’s eyes looked straight into the dark recesses of his heart.

“I would rather let them starve than to see my girls and all the women raped and every last person, man, woman, and child, brutally murdered. La Rochelle will not be a second Nègrepelisse.”

Aramis reared back as if he’d been shot. He was overcome by a sudden nausea, the mention of that name making his stomach clench and coil. The acrid smoke scorching his throat, the screams of those unfortunates, the cobbled streets slick with blood… He tried not to think, to force all this back into the horrid pit it had lain in for all these years.

“These animals you ride with,” said Guiton. “Is that what you would have me succumb to? Is that what your priests teach from their pulpits? Is that the creed of the cardinal?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 3rd paragraph mentions Nègrepelisse, a historic siege/massacre/mass rape. If you want to avoid it entirely, skip the first part of this chapter and start reading at “He needed to ask Porthos about what was right".

Aramis needed help.

He was back in the dungeon, trussed up like fowl, and this time he knew he was going to die. Which wasn’t really why he needed help. This was hardly unexpected. He didn’t blame the Huguenots. He had as good as admitted that he’d been at Nègrepelisse and he knew Guiton had read his reaction for what it was. No point denying it.

Eight hundred bodies. He’d seen… he could still smell… he remembered the flies and the… the ground saturated with blood. At least it had been silent then. Before that… These animals. He hadn’t done it. He hadn’t raped and pillaged along with them. But nobody would believe that. He didn’t ask them to. He hadn’t done anything to stop it either. He’d followed orders. If death was to follow those actions, he could have no complaints.

But he wasn’t fighting it. And that, that was a problem.

They’d made light work of him. Had him bundled up before his mind had returned from the horror of Nègrepelisse. He’d let them do it. Let them drag him downstairs and dump him in the corner. He didn’t know how long he’d been back, and he couldn’t say he cared all that much either. The clock was ticking now, down, down, down to his death and he didn’t even mind.

That’s what he needed help with.

_I command you to give no quarter to any man, because they have irritated me._

He could still hear these words, the words of his king at Nègrepelisse. And Aramis, the loyal soldier, he followed them. As was his duty. He needed Athos to speak to him about duty. About orders followed and deeds done and the honour that lay in that. Decisions that weren’t yours to make, that were made for you by king, country, and convention. He needed to hear that he was still a man. A man of duty and honour. A man who’d done the right thing even thought it felt so wrong.

He needed to ask Porthos about what was right. He needed his compassion and his care. He needed to hear that he was still a good man despite all that he’d seen. That this wasn’t all there was to him, that he was still worth something.

He needed his friends.

None of them were afraid of death going into a fight. That fear wasn’t helpful in their line of work. But when someone wanted to kill them, they didn’t just let it happen. They fought and they ran and they did… something.

Aramis didn’t.

He lay there and waited for Guiton to return and drag him out of his hole to his own execution. And that wasn’t right. He didn’t deserve to be executed. But did the people of La Rochelle deserve this? Had the people of Nègrepelisse? La Rochelle, the starving city with the rich history, the lavish council chamber with the dagger stuck in the table. And somewhere five girls, all beautiful in his mind’s eye and with flaming red hair like their father’s. Starvation or murder, which one did they deserve?

His stomach growled, startling him from his thoughts. Like he had any right to be hungry. How quaint, the want to eat every day. By all accounts he’d been lucky, being treated to a feast made of his own pauldron. He chuckled. That damn pauldron. It hadn’t been anything special. A cheap replacement, but still… it had been a sign of what he was, who he was. Another honour he had lost. The second one in a year and once again he needed rescuing. He needed Porthos. He hated risking Porthos’ life once again, but he needed him. He had no other hope. No. Nonsense. He needed to stop this. For his friends’ sake, if not his own.

He turned to his other hope and comfort then. This was about religion after all.

_Ave Maria, gratia plena…_

Why should Mary pray for him? What had he done to deserve Her intercession? A sinner he was, and quite possibly near the hour of his death, but he wasn’t the only one and hardly the most deserving. Those five girls, the Holy Virgin would pray for them, not him.

He abandoned this prayer. Tried his luck with another.

_Pater noster, qui es in caelis..._

Father in heaven, but where was He on this earth? Where was He here in La Rochelle, where men, women, and children were starving to avoid a worse fate? Where was He in the minds and hearts of His own chosen leaders who could end all this if they wanted?

Aramis screwed up his eyes to combat the building headache. Too much thinking or too little nourishment? Or maybe a lingering head injury? He’d never had a chance to assess his wounds. Nothing felt badly hurt, but they had hit him over the head. While he’d been fine to move about all day, he knew that not all concussions were immediately apparent.

Maybe the pain was merely God’s reminder of his wisdom and omnipotence.

_Oh the depth of the riches of the wisdom and of the knowledge of God… How incomprehensible are his judgments, and how unsearchable his ways…_ How truly and utterly unsearchable indeed. This was about God after all, about religion.

He needed to pray. He needed to ground himself and calm his feverish mind. Images flitted in front of his eyes. The dagger and Guiton’s tired eyes. The meagre leather soup. The young woman by the fountain. The five daughters he hadn’t even seen. All that death in the name of religion.

He needed to find his way back. He always did, even under the most severe torture. He always forced the thoughts and memories away. He could do it now. He could pray. Pray for affirmation.

_Credo in Deum —_ oh yes, he believed, he knew he still did.

_Patrem omnipotentem —_ what sort of father are you?

_Creatorem caeli et terrae —_ creating heaven and earth and sometimes hell on earth.

He prayed and argued his way through most of the Apostle’s creed.

_Credo in Spiritum Sanctum —_ but where was the Holy Spirit now?

_Sanctam Ecclesiam catholicam —_ and how holy was the church it its actions?

_Sanctorum communionem —_ what a bunch of saints they were, Richelieu most of all.

_Remissionem peccatorum —_ there sure were a lot of sins to forgive.

_Carnis resurrectionem —_ and so many bodies to resurrects.

_Vitam aeternam —_ no hope for this life any more, so shuffle off this mortal coil and hope for the next. 

_Amen._

He didn’t realise he’d been praying out loud until the final word reverberated around the empty room, mocking him with whispered echoes.

“Amen,” said a voice that wasn’t his. Guiton. Back to fetch him. To execute him. And Aramis knew that he should care. He did, in a way. He had friends to see, a family to reunite with. He didn’t want to die. He’d been there and he’d left that behind long ago. But…

“Seems my prayers aren’t being answered,” he said, trying to sound detached and superior. He wasn’t sure it worked.

“That shall depend,” Guiton said. “Were you mainly praying for the forgiveness of sins or the resurrection of the body?”

It was odd to hear the words said out loud. Of course he didn’t necessarily think in Latin, not even when it came to bible verses, but there was a difference between thoughts and hearing the actual words said in a language that wasn’t the church’s. Normal for a Huguenot, though. And somewhat more palatable than the other things that were normal for them. He tried the words out in his mind. _Carnis resurrectionem. The resurrection of the body._ Interesting. Not bad, just different.

“One cannot happen without the other,” he said.

“One has to happen first,” Guiton replied.

“Public execution then?” Aramis asked. “Give them games if you cannot give them bread?”

“ _Panem et circenses,”_ Guiton said. So he did speak Latin then, but not for religious matters. Wouldn’t want to twist his tongue for God.

“So what will it be?” Aramis asked. “Better make it worth my time. I only want the best. Got to disappoint you though. Whatever you come up with, I won’t blab. And yes, you may take that as a challenge.”

He couldn’t quite see Guiton’s face in the dim light of his candle, but his next words sounded like he was smiling. The bastard.

“I don’t need any more from you,” Guiton said. Oh, bastard indeed. That was insulting!

“Are you sure?” he asked. Porthos would probably tell him that annoying his executioner wasn’t a good idea, but really what did it matter now? Might as well go out in a blaze of glory.

“You have given me all you can for now.”

Aramis snorted. “I’m a musketeer.” Maybe he didn’t know as much about the siege and their strategy as he’d made out he did, but he did know some things. It was insulting that that embarrassment of a mayor didn’t even try.

“And even your fighting prowess would make no difference to our plight.”

Aramis bristled at the implication. “I would never fight on your side. I’m no turncoat.”

Guiton nodded. “You’re not.”

He said it like that was a positive. A positive for him and not Aramis. This man was odd. He hadn’t seemed so by the light of day, but now… Aramis couldn’t read him at all.

“You know there will be revenge for this.”

“Will that change our fate at all?” Guiton asked, sounding genuinely curious, like it was a normal conversation to be talking about their respective deaths and those of his family.

“My friends will…” What actually? He realised that he had nothing to threaten this man with. He already knew he was going to die. He’d already picked the death he preferred. How could anyone gain leverage over that?

“Your friends, yes, that reminds me…” Guiton kneeled next to him and heavens, what was it with that man and daggers? He held the blade close to Aramis’ stomach. Aramis tried to arch away, to avoid injury somehow, but once again he was tied up very well. Sailors, the whole lot of them. Sailors were good with knots. If he hadn’t been about to die, he might have asked for lessons.

The blade sliced through his shirt and soon he found himself gagged with absolutely disgustingly filthy fabric. When _had_ he last washed that thing? He retched, tried to suppress it, tried to breathe through his nose. Truly no more talking, it seemed.

“Not a sound,” Guiton said. Didn’t he even want to hear him cry? Usually, torturers were keen on the noise. Wanted to enjoy the fruits of their labour.

Another flash of the dagger. “And don’t even try to run.”

The ties around his feet loosened.

He wriggled his toes and tried to rotate his ankles to hasten the blood back to his extremities. His right foot seized up with a cramp and he groaned into the gag. His body was as unwilling to run as his mind. Guiton left him hobbled, nonetheless. From fowl to cattle, how splendid.

“Get up.”

Guiton dragged him upright, but when Aramis teetered, he kept a steadying hand on his shoulder. What was this man playing at? Friend or enemy? Enemy, of course, they were at war, they were out to kill each other. Maybe he was playing at being nice because he knew he had the upper hand. Go and execute him and be all benevolent and kind. It didn’t feel like pretence though.

Aramis tested the limits of his bonds. Tighter than before. He could move, but only in a slow shuffle. A slow, humiliating shuffle. Sure, make him look like some broken prisoner. He held his head high, wincing only slightly when all those bruises screamed in protest. He would not be bowed. He’d face the noose or whatever else they’d come up with with dignity. He wasn’t broken.

He shook his arms as much as those ropes would allow and bounced on his feet. Get the blood flowing, his heart pumping. Wake his brain up from the nightmare of his thoughts. He was ready. Ready to face whatever was coming. A baying crowd. He wouldn’t give them a spectacle. He’d be poised and calm and if they rid him of this gag, he’d pray and throw his Latin in their faces. Heathens. He’d show them how to face death as a true man of god, knowing he’d be welcomed by his benevolent Lord.

“Will you be able to walk?”

Aramis gave him a brusque nod and tried to snarl around the cloth between his teeth. He didn’t need sympathy from his own personal devil. 

There were no guards. The corridor was dimly lit by torches in their brackets and once again there was no one in sight. At least the torches were flattering. Not just one torch but light the whole way. Like they did expect him to run and wanted to be able to see.

He wished for guards though. He knew what to do with guards. He wanted to see more men. He wanted to fight them. Let him fight for his life. _Panem et circenses._ Let it be real, let him entertain the crowds, let him kill their local champions one by one until, finally, he was overrun and collapsed bleeding onto the dusty ground like a gladiator of old. And even as the thumbs pointed down, the women would weep and the men sigh for the great fallen warrior, acknowledging his might even in defeat.

That was the way to go. Not this, staring at his own bare toes through the widening holes in his socks.

But this was what he was stuck with. A silent man leading him slowly through winding corridors, offering him a hand so he wouldn’t stumble on the stairs. One man, older than him and weaker, but utterly unafraid.

How? How was he so calm? His city was dying, his family starving, and his only ally hadn’t made an attempt at relief for months. He had the deadliest sharpshooter, an elite soldier of his enemy’s personal guard in his hands and he acted like he was entirely at peace with all that.

Aramis didn’t understand. He couldn’t fight a man like that.

Another door and they stepped out into the silent night. A light, salty breeze was blowing from the sea, but other than that there wasn’t a sound. Aramis fidgeted. He’d expected… something. Someone. But once again he was greeted by nothing and nobody.

Guiton lead him through deserted streets. At every corner there was a gaunt man, watching for fire or attack. Each of them nodded a mute greeting and let them pass unchallenged. A soldier saw them approach the wall and descended to meet them at its foot.

“Still there?” the mayor asked.

The soldier nodded. “Making for the postern gate.”

“As we thought.” Guiton briefly grasped the soldier’s shoulder. “Good man. Let us see.”

Aramis was awkward on the stairs, his legs tied too tight to master the steps with ease. Nobody rushed him, the soldier showing as much patience as Guiton. Were they waiting for something? Was there something on that wall that would offer good sport to them? Whatever made them happy couldn’t be good news for him.

On top of the wall, nothing stood out as unusual. Soldiers posted at regular intervals, no more or less than Aramis would have expected. Appropriate arms as well; there seemed no shortage of those.

They stopped and stared out into the night. Guiton directed Aramis’ gaze down to the foot of the wall and a little further along. A parallel, lower wall shieled a sally port in the main rampart. It was well-planned, making the small gate difficult to reach and impossible to fire at from a distance. But they hadn’t brought him here to inspect their fortifications.

He tried to look at Guiton, to read his face for any explanation. A hand at the back of his neck made him turn towards the vast dark marshland.

“Look,” the mayor breathed into his ear, angling his head down.

Aramis stared into the night. Clouds flitted across the moon, making shadows vanish and appear. What was he looking at?

His breath caught in his throat when one of the shadows moved and then another. Only a brief moment before they disappeared again, lying flat on the ground or crouched behind some shrubbery. Within a few breaths, it happened again. A flurry of movement, then nothing. Shadows too large and too strategic to be stray animals.

Aramis heart beat like a blacksmith’s hammer.

He knew that shadow there. The size, the movement. He’d come. And where Porthos was, Athos was as well. His whole body cramped, and this time it didn’t come from the bruises, from the outside, it started from the inside, from his heart.

He didn’t notice he was being led back down the stairs until the ground gave way under his feet and a soldier caught him, yanking him back before he fell.

“Careful.” Guiton looked at him with something like worry creasing his face. Worry for him? Surely not. Worry about his friends? They were hardly an army. Aramis had no idea what their hare-brained plan was, but he doubted it would do any serious harm to the city. And if Guiton was worried about their little attack, well, his men had certainly spotted them. They could shoot them just as easily from the safety of their high wall. The thought made him shudder. Hare-brained and hunted like hares as well.

“Well, then,” said Guiton.

Somewhere in those two syllables, Aramis understood his plan. As they fumbled to remove his gag, it all fell into place. His mouth was dry and he swallowed several times to get rid of the stale taste and reawaken his tongue.

“No.” His voice was a sharp hiss in the near-silent night. “I won’t make up for your inadequate skills. I won’t shoot my friends.”

The bastard blinked innocently at his fierce response. “But—”

“I’m not yours to command.” Aramis spat the words in his face, rushing forward with the stumbling steps his bonds allowed. “Go ahead and kill me. I won’t barter their lives for mine.”

Guiton held up his hands but did not push him back. “Peace, Monsieur d’Herblay.”

“Peace,” Aramis hissed. The only peace he’d find was death.

“I mean your friends no ill.”

“They aren’t a threat to you. You’ve got me. Keep me and do to me what you want, but you won’t have them.”

Guiton shook his head. “What use is one dead soldier to me? What use are three or ten or even a hundred? The many-headed hydra doesn’t sleep.”

Aramis snorted at being compared to some heathen monster. “Why kidnap me, then?”

Why if not to turn him into the murderer of his own? To make him an instrument of their sick faith, to make him sympathetic to their plight, to watch him beg them for forgiveness, to make him see some new Calvary in their suffering.

A smile ghosted across Guiton’s face.

“The opportunity presented itself. It isn’t every day that I get to dine with a musketeer.”

“And try to force him to kill others.”

Guiton shook his head. “That was never my intention.”

He beckoned another soldier closer. Aramis reply died in his throat when he saw what the man carried. His accursed, half-eaten pauldron.

“You forgive us our charades,” Guiton said.

When the soldier turned it in his hands, it wasn’t half-eaten at all. It was whole and as smooth as it had ever been, gleaming in the light of a torch. Aramis was dimly aware that his eyes had gone wide as cannon balls. He swallowed down his surprised sound with some effort as the mayor took the pauldron into his own hands and began to strap it to Aramis’ shoulder.

It felt like a home-coming, the weight back on Aramis’ body where it belonged. He breathed a little freer, as the mayor struggled to fasten the buckles despite Aramis’ tightly bound hands.

“What’s this?” Aramis asked. “Are you dressing me up like a lamb for slaughter?”

“We wish you no harm.”

Aramis struggled against the rope. He felt like he had regained his spirit with that peace of leather.

“We’re freeing you, so you may join your friends.”

Aramis ceased his struggle. “But… why?”

“You are a man of God and your religion. A man of principle. No matter how long I keep you here, I shall not be able to convert you to our cause.”

“But… you’re letting me go?” Aramis tried to find the catch in this proposition. They’d let him go and then what? Shoot his friends along with him?

“Because you listened.” Guiton sighed. “You return straight to the royal camp. Any attempt to attack or to enter the city will be dealt with accordingly. Do not expect leniency.”

Aramis tongue was too dry, big, and awkward in his mouth to make a reply. What was there to say? Any thanks he gave would be hollow and tinged with fear that he was walking into an invisible trap. Listening. That was no reason to let him go. He wriggled his shoulder as much as he could and tried to glance sideways at his pauldron. Guiton caught his movement and reached out to trace the outline of the fleur-de-lis.

"I cannot guarantee your safety beyond these walls but this may grant you some protection from your own men." His fingers lingered on the leather, that prime cut.

"Don't you... need it?" Aramis asked. To feed yourself. To keep your children alive. To do all the things mentioned and implied in their earlier discussion.

"We keep your boots and clothes."

Aramis glanced at his toes. Losing his boots would be a blow to his purse, but really not much in the grand scheme of things. They were nice boots, long and sturdy. Lots of leather to eat. But it wouldn't be enough. It could never be enough.

Guiton knew. He sighed and seemed to shrink in the flickering light.

"Be worthy of it." He patted the pauldron in farewell.

Aramis stiffened. More lives he'd live for those who couldn't.

He wasn’t given time to linger on this thought, being navigated instead down long corridors and winding stairs. There were many soldiers here, all heavily armed. Aramis realised the Huguenots had been expecting them. They’d had more faith in his friends’ rescue mission than he did.

At length, they came to a halt by a heavy door. Huge wooden bolts were pulled aside, ready to be slid back into their brackets once he’d passed. A second, identical door was only a few feet away. Unless the defence was completely abandoned, no enemy would gain access here. La Rochelle had earned her reputation for being impenetrable.

“Straight to your camp. Do not dither.” Guiton surveyed him from top to peeking toe.

Aramis lifted his hands as far as he could. “What about these?”

“I’m sure you’ll be relieved of them soon enough.”

Aramis shook his head. He couldn’t even think of anything he would do if he could move his hands, but this man wasn’t taking any risks. One of Guiton’s hands came to rest between his shoulder blades.

“Godspeed.”

The door swung open and Aramis was pushed forward so roughly he lost his footing and fell face-first into the mud.

Ungainly like a seal, he wriggled to get his face out of the dirt, to get to his hands and knees. When he had finally clambered up the bank of the small brook, he sat for a while, gasping for air. He wiped the rancid water from his mouth with his sleeve. Freedom didn’t taste as sweet as he’d imagined.

Nor did it look as welcoming. The darkness was absolute. He’d been able to see his friends from the wall, but now there was nothing, just inky black. No sound except for the soft rustlings of the night, the hoot of an owl in the distance. He was alone.

All alone in a dark night. All alone with no idea what else waited out there. All alone… No. He knew they were close. He’d seen them. They were there. They hadn’t left him. They were coming to get him. They hadn’t given up; they hadn’t left him to his fate. He just had to find them. Find them before they got too close, before they were within easy reach of the muskets, before they were killed by the Span— the Huguenots.

No. Nobody would get killed tonight. He’d find them and he’d get them far away from that wall and those fanatics. He’d do that, he’d save them. They’d be fine. Everything was fine. He was fine.

He hoisted himself upright. Getting to his feet was cumbersome. His bound limbs made him overbalance and his muscles cramped and ached. He’d worry about that later. Not now. He had to move now. Had to get them away from danger, away from whatever that devilish mayor was planning next. He still couldn’t quite believe Guiton had set him free.

He limped away from the wall, deeper into the blackness. Sharp grass cut his feet and he bit down on his lip to not make a sound. Better not draw attention to himself. If they heard him and thought he was… No, they’d recognise him. He couldn’t do that to them. They’d recognise him and everything would be fine. Unless—

He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut. He had to stay alert. He couldn’t afford to slide back. This wasn’t Savoy. Savoy. As soon as he had thought the word, it started to grow inside of him and echoed in his hollow head. No. Mud, not ice. Porthos and Athos, not Marsac. La Rochelle, not Savoy. It was different now.

He peered out into the night. It was fine. He was fine. Against all the odds, he was alive. And against all reason, they were here to come and get him. His friends. They hadn’t abandoned him.

Deep breath.

He looked back at the wall, its squat shape looming like a monster on the prowl. He should move a little further to his left, away from the tower. If they had kept up their pace from earlier, they wouldn’t have come this far. He’d go to the left and find them.

They’d find him with a bullet to his head. And then what?

His heart had climbed into his throat, choking him. No, they wouldn’t. They couldn’t risk the noise of a shot, not this close to the wall. They’d wait for him to come close and then— His heart was hurrying through a lifetime of beats, afraid to miss out on its allocated number. Feeling for Athos’ pulse when he’d lost all that blood. The happiness when he’d felt its flutter. Porthos’ frantic heartbeat vibrating through the reins his first time on a horse. Aramis smiled. Happy memories. And there’d be more.

He hobbled through the dust and weeds. Rocks cut his feet and nettles stung his hands, but he had a memory to counter each of these small hurts. Athos’ smirk and Porthos’ laugh. Racing them on Angelina. Bickering around a campfire or beating each other at practice. The smell of Porthos’ pomade and the soft weave of Athos’ shirt.

They had to be close now. He’d find them soon. He had to because if they had walked past—

A movement. A shadow and another and then Aramis was running, stumbling, catching himself. The shadow held up a hand. Aramis kept moving. Closer, closer. He didn’t mind the rocks or the nettles or the grass cutting every piece of exposed skin.

“Porthos,” he whispered through parched lips.

A shadow separated from the black mass and stepped towards him. Aramis collided with it, collapsed into it. Breathed in mud and sweat and… pomade. His hands scrabbled for purchase on Porthos’ leathers. Those were a surprise. But of course, he still wore them and that alone was somehow more… and less… and altogether overwhelming. Real, and there, and still the same when everything else had changed.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis whispered, shuddering against Porthos’ solid chest. Then the words kept tumbling out, faster and faster like a dam had been breached. “I’m sorry, Porthos. You were right. I’m sorry, I… I thought I’d lost you, I thought I… I…”

The tremor of Porthos’ chuckle jostled his body, but a firm hand at his back held him steady.

“Shush, you’re not making any sense.” The smile was in Porthos’ voice as well. Humouring him, indulging him. Holding him. Still.

“How…?” Athos’ voice.

How indeed? How was he still alive? How had he found them? How had they come out here? How had Guiton known? Oh God Guiton, what if… His stomach clenched and Aramis lurched forward.

“Shh, we’re here,” Porthos said, holding him.

And he very nearly wasn’t. And oh God, what if it was all a trap? What if Guiton…? He wouldn’t just let him go for listening, of course not, of course it was a trap and Aramis was the bait and he’d lead them all to damnation and into that hell where they ate pauldrons and boots and still died of hunger.

“Are you alone?” Athos asked.

Aramis managed to nod against Porthos’ chest, but even that small movement made more emotions bubble up and spill over, out of his eyes and nose and mouth. Porthos’ arms around him tightened, squeezing hard enough to make him feel like he was really there.

“I love you,” Aramis gasped.

Voices flew over his shoulder, a hurried exchange. They hadn’t heard. Maybe he hadn’t made a sound. And maybe it was better that way. He let himself sag against Porthos, let his knees buckle and his body go limp. Porthos hoisted him up and then they were moving. Moving much faster than he had before and it felt like floating, like the Lord had sent angels to carry him home. And in a way he had. Aramis’ own personal angels.

There were questions, whispered as they walked. Breaths on the wind that never quite reached Aramis’ ear. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more. Just Porthos’ hands on his body, the reality of his moving muscles against Aramis’ skin. Here and real and alive.

He let Athos’ voice wash over him like a cool cloth. Of course, Athos had found a way. Of course, he’d worked it out. Ever the tactician. Always willing to risk it all for a friend. Always here for him. They both were. There were others as well, but those two mattered above all else. He’d go home with them. Home to their little room or to some campfire or one day, eventually, back to their garrison. He’d go wherever they went. Somehow it was easier to believe in them now than it had been to believe in God’s grace earlier. They were here and real and tangible.

They had come for him.


End file.
